


this is where you are

by empires



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Light Dom/sub, M/M, NO CAPES, Recovery, hurt comfort, past abusive relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 23:54:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13914891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires/pseuds/empires
Summary: I'm lonely now, and I don't know how to get it back to good- matchbox 20written for the geckoholic's prompt for the jaydick winter blahs exchange:you're a nude model at my art course and I'm so gonna fail it because you're so distracting





	this is where you are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geckoholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/gifts).



> to my recipient, sorry for the delay. i hope you don't mind your story being associated with late 90s ennui. and i hope you like this fic!
> 
> it takes a villages to get my stories out the door anymore. special thank you to volavi for the excellent beta work, pentapoda for the critical read and questions, carbonjen for the handholding, and salvadore for the timely suggestions.
> 
> and a special shout out to a friend who once wrote the most amazing mechanic au that you'll ever read. the haunting image of that lonely man doing the right thing still rests in my heart. this shiny audi tt is for you!

Roy is the only person Dick knows who manages to ask questions without sounding like the full authority of the Supreme Court sat at his elbow. Dick had explained this to Roy when he’d questioned why Dick wanted to be roommates with a guy he’d only known for six months, only four of which he’d been sober. After hearing his reasoning, Roy had laughed. 

“Okay, yeah, I met your family,” he'd said. “I can kind of see where you’re coming from.” 

They'd been best friends ever since.

The early sun creeps into the kitchen where Roy and Dick exchange details about their week. It’s a rare occurrence. Roy usually stumbles into the apartment at six and immediately heads into his bedroom where the blackout curtains blot out all the light and sleeps before his next shift begins. Catching up is good though. Roy shares a stray conversation from work, which leads into Dick's bizarre floral delivery experience for the week. They lapse into a comfortable silence while Dick dithers by the sink.

Roy huffs quietly. “You’re really going through with this, huh?”

“Sure am,” Dick answers. He pours the remains of his tea down the drain, hoping the nervousness bubbling in his gut doesn’t spill out and betray him.

“Without eating anything though?”

“I’m not hungry. Besides, I skipped the gym Wednesday, so I’m already a little puffy. I just don’t want a food pouch while I’m up there.” Dick turns to the side then pulls his shirt tight, accenting smooth muscle tone he’ll have on display during the art class. He catches Roy’s grimace out the corner of his eye. “What?”

“Are you really going to make me say it?”

“Say what?”

“Don’t play coy, Grayson.” Roy sighs at the puzzled look his comment receives. It always reminded him of a puppy encountering their first stairs, and Roy’s so weak to it. “Fine. You look amazing, you narcissistic bastard. That art class won’t know what hit them.”

Dick raised his fists above his head and flexed, eyebrows wiggling. “I hope so. If I can model in Dr. Durham’s other figure drawing classes, I’ll be able to take my car to the shop at the end of the month.”

“Yeah,” Roy agrees. “Then I can stop carting your ass around town.”

Between his part-time job at Stone Florals and his tutoring sessions at the student union, Dick makes just enough to scrape by each week. But he’d taken a major hit in the wallet when he walked out of the research building to find his car parked in the middle of the lot with a crushed driver’s side door. The damage was bad, the cops speculated it might be deliberate, maybe even affecting to the frame. The driver side door no longer opens, so Dick has been climbing over the seats just to get inside. He spent three days contemplating picking up the phone and making  _ the call _ and facing the consequences of his actions seven months ago. But the same sweep of fate that ruined his week saved Dick from having to eat his pride for a little while longer. A freshmen he tutors left a flyer behind calling for models for the advanced and community art classes.

Roy chews on his cereal thoughtfully. “Yeah. You might make a better impression if you’re not standing up there naked with your stomach growling though. Just saying.”

“You might be right,” he says, sheepishly. He snatches the shiny projectile suddenly flying towards him. A raspberry cream toaster pop. His favorite. “You’re the best roommate I’ve ever had.”

Roy laughs. “The only roommate you’ve ever had, but I’ll take it.” 

 

* * *

 

Dick enters the classroom at the designated time. The space has the sparse, industrial feel with exposed brick, metal doors, and wide, horizontal windows letting in bright, clean light.

There’s a man at the far end of the room tugging canvas from a large plastic container. He shakes his dark head after a moment, discarding one to pull another free only to go through the process again.

“Excuse me,” Dick calls, “Is Dr. Durham here?”

There’s a moment before Dick’s voice penetrates the thick concentration the man applies to those poor canvases, then he turns electric eyes on Dick, slicing down his body with the focus of a laser. Dick’s heart thumps once in his chest, hard, and then the guy nods towards a set of double doors opposite him.

“Thanks,” Dick says, but the gaze has already returned to its tasks, leaving Dick to walk over to the doorway. His sneakers squeak over the stamped concrete. The door creaks when he walks through, and he follows the small light down a darkened hallway.

Dr. Durham sits at a compact desk amidst several shelves, a tall, handsome man with a shock of bleach-blonde hair and warm, dark skin. He stands, extending a hand. “Mr. Grayson. Thank you for coming in today.”

“Thank you for the opportunity,” Dick says, giving him a firm shake.

“Let me show you around.” He waves to the narrow walls surrounding him. “This is my office. Formerly the utility closet.”

“Cozy,” Dick offers.

“That’s one word for it,” Dr. Durham says, smiling. He slides past Dick into the hallway and turns flips the light switch. Now, Dick sees that several heavy doors comprise the left side of the hall. “This is the storage area. If you follow the hall down and turn left, you’ll find the bathrooms. Follow me.”

They step down the hallway where Dr. Durham opens another door revealing a cozy space. Two small chairs, a table, and a loveseat tuck against the wall. A coffee maker happily bubbles atop the table. “You can prepare for the session here. Do you have any questions?”

Dick shakes his head. “We covered everything during our meeting. I also went through the guidelines three times,” he says. “I think I’m good.”

“Alright. There’s a robe for you behind the door if you forgot your own. I’ll come collect you when it’s time for introductions,” says Dr. Durham, then takes his leave.

Dick sets his satchel down after the door closes. The room is almost unbearably warm thanks to a small space heater kicking out air. A nice touch, he supposes. He unfurls the scarf from his neck and sets it on the chair then removes his shoes, jacket, and sweater. He feels a twinge in his belly with those items gone. The nervousness turning to excitement. It’s been a long time since he’s performed. Scratch that. It’s been a long time since he’s performed and enjoyed it.

Dick shakes himself and then slaps his cheeks. “Head in the game, Grayson,” he mutters to himself. The last thing he needs is to become reflective and maudlin before a show.

He takes the next ten minutes to relax, easing through a series of stretches and deep breathing to warm his body. When he’s feeling centered, Dick finishes undressing, socks, pants, tee, and underwear. A mirror hangs behind the robe, a long thin thing that distorts the left side of his image. Still, it’s not an unflattering effect. His shoulders are strong, his waist trim, his limbs lean and tightly muscled. There’s a smattering of hair in the center of his chest and a dark trail below his belly button which leads to a neatly trimmed vee above his soft cock. Dick smiles. His reflection smiles back, and for a second, he spies a flicker of light in his eyes.

“You’re gonna be fine out there,” Dick whispers. “Just fine.” He's shrugging on the robe and ties the belt with a loose knot when a knock sounds at the door.

“Mr. Grayson? We’re ready for you.”

Dick follows eager to prove that he's ready as well. 

Dr. Durham keeps the introductions short.

“Everyone, this is our model, Mr. Grayson. Mr. Grayson, this is my class.”

“Hello,” Dick says with a grand wave. “Thank you for having me here today.” He climbs onto the podium after the professor waves him forward, and after reviewing the last principles of the day’s lesson, turns Dick loose on the class. Literally.

Dick would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about this moment, the reveal, since he first spoke with Dr. Durham and decided yes, he needed the extra cash enough to pose nude. He unties the belt and then lets the heavy terry cloth slide from his shoulders to the ground in a quiet thump. A gasp, a titter, silence. There are twelve students in this classroom, twenty-six pairs of eyes including Dr. Durham, and they’re all trained on him. Dick settles against the stool in his first pose, and slowly, the students begin to work.

The hour flies by, and Dick is keenly aware of two things when he collects his things and leaves the studio. The first is that he really, really likes the eyes on him, the students studying him, their focus and frankly, appreciative stares. It spoke to the part of him that made sure he jacked off before arriving. Twice.

The second is the dark-haired artist at the back of the class who simply stared at Dick with the same focused, electric gaze that greeted him before the session began.

 

* * *

 

Dr. Durham invites him back for three more classes.

“Popular demand,” he says, drolly, signing the invoice slip for Dick to take to the bursar’s office. “If you’re amenable, I’d like to add you to the department’s contact list. This just means you’d be among the first the department calls for other figure modeling, photography, still life, and of course, our humble class.”

Dick shakes the dollar signs from his eyes and returns the warm handshake. “Thank you, Dr. D., I’d appreciate the opportunity.”

“Great. I’ll forward your permission form and contact information to the front office. You should receive a confirmation email that requests blackout dates. Days when you won’t be available,” he explains. “And don’t forget about our next class on Thursday, same time.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be here with bells on,” says Dick.

Dr. Durham laughs. “Please no. I don’t think the class can take it.”

It’s hard to judge if his posing helps the students, but Dick knows he’s making an impact. The air practically vibrates with anticipation the moment he steps onto the podium. Sounds of preparation fade. No pencils scratching, no pages flipping, just eyes staring, breaths caught until Dick finally lets the robe slide down his arms. The audible sighs can really play with a guy’s ego.

Dick begins the day’s session supine on chaise lounge. His right foot is firmly planted on the ground while his left forms a lazy pyramid over the graying silk. His cock is neatly tucked against his thigh. Slowly, the sounds of artistic endeavors fill the room again. Dick finds it helpful to stare at a point in the room for his first session. It keeps his attention focused, plus the myriad of posters on the wall were interesting. In between learning about color theory and perspective, he surreptitiously watches the students, trying to get a glimpse of himself on their papers.

No one has worked up the courage to speak to Dick after the session ends, and he’s not one to stand around in the silence. But he’s taken to giving them all nick names and unraveling the small mysteries of their lives while he sits under their stare. Like Susie Sugarshock, named for the “S” initial on her charm bracelet and the packet of sour sweeties she sets on her easel each class. The Worrier sits next to her, so called for the way he carefully aligns his pencils on the small table beside him and then fiddles with their placement for the rest of the class. Dick slides his eyes from the low sweep of hands over paper when a flash of electric green catches his eye. Looking up, he finds himself caught in the gaze of the student at the back of the room. It’s the same student he saw his first day in Dr. Durham’s lab, the one with the laser eyes. Dick merely refers to this one as Red named for the ever present color of shirt or hoodie thread worn and thin across broad shoulders.

Red always adopts the same position at the back of the class. Posture ramrod straight, chin tilted just enough that it almost feels like he’s looking at Dick from down the length of his nose. It’s the kind of glare that makes Dick’s stomach clench and flush spread over his cheeks, frankly assessing, never wavering like he can see all of Dick.

He wonders how Red sketches him. He wonders if Red has even tried. In the entire time Dick has spent in the classroom, he's never seen Red so much as lift a pencil.

 

* * *

 

Roy looks up from his meal as Dick’s winding stream of consciousness about the boy from the art class comes to an end. “So, what? You like this guy or something?”

“I think he’s cute. Attractive. Intense.” Dick dunks his noodles into the broth with a sigh. The vegetables swirl gently before settling. “I don’t know if I like him, but he’s got me intrigued.”

“You should talk to him at least. I hear it helps.”

Dick drops his spoon. The problem is that he really wants to talk to the guy. “I just don’t know if I’m ready. What if I do and realize I’m not?”

“Then you can carry on knowing you tried,” Roy says, tapping his foot against Dick’s. “Just say hello, man. It’s a first step, and like Croc says, first steps are the most important.”

 

* * *

 

The art lab feels different on Dick’s next visit. It’s his third and final time posing for the current class, although he’s scheduled for another three-class stint with Ms. Kyle’s advanced course. The room no longer feels like a strange stage, but a place he’s conquered.

Dr. Durham stands in close conversation with Red just beyond his office. He nods along with the emphatic hand motions Red makes. The door closing alerts Dr. Durham to Dick’s presence, and he waves him over.

“Mr. Grayson, hello. Mr. Todd and I were just discussing you. Do you mind if I tell him what happened?” asks the professor once Dick joins them, unwrapping the extended scarf from his neck.

It’s the closest they’ve been since Dick’s first session, and Dick’s more than intrigued by the aggressive nonchalance oozing from Mr. Todd’s slouched frame. Red shrugs, which is all the permission needed, because Dr. Durham throws out a hell of a conversation starter, excitement churning his calm voice.

“I’d like to formally introduce you to Mr. Todd. He’s an artist with phenomenal talent with an amazing proposition for you,” Dr. Durham beams at Dick. “You see, you’ve become Jason’s muse.”

Dick blinks, unsure what surprises him most. Hearing that he’s now an art student’s muse or that he has Red’s full name at his fingertips.

“Come on, Dr. D., don’t say shit like that,” Jason groans. “It sounds weird.”

Dr. Durham grins slyly. “Well, how would you explain it?”

Dick doesn’t hear the challenge in the professor’s tone, but clearly Jason does, because he draws himself to full height and turns his electric eyes to him.

“I figured out what was wrong with your poses,” Jason says, bluntly. “So now I think we can work together. If you wouldn’t mind doing a couple private sessions with me that is.”

“What was wrong. With my poses,” Dick sounds the words carefully. Although his fingers flinch within the knit material in his hands, he manages to ignore the lurid voice whispering in his ear that he was wrong, that he wasn’t good. “What was wrong with my poses?”

“Mr. Todd, you’re supposed to be soliciting Mr. Grayson’s help,” the professor reminds, and Jason’s expression goes from bored to puzzled to pained in seconds.

“No, no, no. I didn’t mean that you were wrong, I just meant that. I had an idea for this kicking around in my head for an art submission, but I didn’t know how to execute it. And then I saw you.” The corner of Jason’s mouth up revealing a dimple in the sharp curve of his cheek. “It was like, eureka,” his fingers snap, “everything made sense. I rushed to get it down, but the way you were posing in class didn’t match what was in my head.”

Dick relaxes slightly. “I see.”

“Mr. Todd spent two weeks working through an idea but didn’t turn in a single sketch for his course portfolio,” Dr. Durham confides.

“Yeah. I was a little lost in it. Didn’t realize what was going on until I saw big fat goose eggs on Canvas,” Jason says. “But I brought my ideas to Dr. D., because I thought you might be able to model for me.”

“Is this for your senior project?” Dick asks politely, trying to gauge what it was Dr. Durham and Jason were asking of him. Jason smiles at him, sea glass eyes flashing.

“I’m not quite there yet. The art submission is for the Gotham Met’s annual art contest. The top entries in each medium receive scholarships.”

Dick looks at him closely. “And you think I’d be able to help you win?”

“No one else will do,” Jason says, voice unwavering in its confidence, and that sounds good. Being able to help someone achieve a goal, but Dr. Durham cements Dick’s answer with a well-timed, “See, muse.”

“A muse can’t let their artist down, so I guess I’m in,” Dick replies, laughing.

Jason smiles, slow and steady, his gaze burning with their habitual intensity, and his hand feels so warm and sure in Dick’s own.

 

* * *

 

The staccato beats of last year’s summer jams echo through the apartment so loud they nearly cover Roy’s return.

In the living room, Dick’s socked feet glide over the wood floors. He spins on his heels before dropping into a low body roll then sways into quick shimmy as the beat drops. Dick wipes the sweat from his brow then flicks the drops in Roy’s direction. His roommate jumps backwards with a curse.

“Hey,” Dick pants. “How was the date with your straight-edge friend?”

“Cool,” Roy says. For some reason he’s hesitant to give out information about the girl he’s seeing. Normally Dick would give him hell about it, but he’s got too much excitement jolting through him right now. “What about you? Everything okay?”

Dick props two finger guns on his hips and scoots his pony along the dance floor. “Yeah, why?”

“Do you remember where I found you last time you played this song?”

Of course Dick remembers. It had been a hard night, one where he missed his old apartment, his old life, even the pressures pulling him in every direction, if only because six months ago, he had someone to make it all go away. Dick had been trying to bring that silence in his head back, only without the lying and the fraud. It didn’t work so well. Roy had found him kneeling on the shower floor under a cold spray while this same song played in the background desperate to zone out.

“I met the guy from the art class today, so now I’m a little amped,” he confesses. “Have to dance some of the energy away. Want to join me?”

Roy mimes unhooking a lasso from his belt and swinging it over head. It casts over Dick’s head and they hop towards each other to the beat of the song. “Took you long enough. Did you make him drop his phone?”

Dick rolls his eyes. He’s heard a lot of obscure dating advice, but Roy’s tips are always so bizarre. “No, man, I don’t know why that’s even a thing with you.”

“You shouldn’t date anyone who doesn’t have phone insurance. It means they don’t care and that one day, you’ll be the one replacing their expensive phone,” Roy says, rehashing a long-standing argument between them. He drowns out Dick’s protests with an, “Okay, okay,  _ okay _ . What did you do to meet your artiste, wonder boy?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Dick says, smugly. “Jason approached me.”

“So that’s his name, huh?” Roy asks knowingly.

“Yes. Jason Todd,” Dick says the name with relish. It’s simple and uncomplicated. “Dr. Durham says he’s a very talented artist. He’s one of the Heritage Fellows.” He laughs at Roy’s quirked brow. “Yeah, I looked that one up. It’s a very prestigious scholarship. He wants me to be the subject of his entry for this big scholarship competition. The prize monies would be enough for him to study in Rome next summer. Pretty cool, huh?”

Roy moonwalks around him. “I guess. Real question. Is he gonna pay you?”

“Yes,” Dick hisses. “One-hundred dollars a session.”

“How long is a session?”

“Two hours.”

“Holy shit. That’s fifty bucks an hour.”

Dick pumps his fist in the air. “I know,” he crows. “He says it’ll be at least eight sessions while he sorts the basic concepts out or whatever. And then another one or two after.”

Roy whistles through his teeth. “Damn, dude. You came through with a sugar daddy of your own this time.”

The words are casual, playful even, but they hit Dick in just the right way, an arrow to his heart. A dull pain unravels inside Dick’s chest at the jest. It’s deep and heavy as a stone.

“Shit, Dick, wait. I’m sorry,” Roy says.

“No. No, I didn’t.” He holds up a hand fending off Roy’s apologies. “It’s okay. Just give me a minute.”

He goes into his room and closes the door. He sets the timer on his phone, two minutes, no five minutes to pull his shit together and then go back out there.

Rather than let the dark feelings sweep over him, Dick pulls out his checkbook. It’s an antiquated way to maintain his finances, but it’s how he’d learned.

This week’s pay is circled at the top of the balance sheet, minus the home expenses, and it’s a meager number, enough for gas and a frugal trip to the grocery store for his weekly beans, rice, and cereal. His education is still being paid for even if Bruce had pulled the plug on his other accounts. He tries not to think about it, but the anger and guilt about his situation swirls to the forefront of his mind leaving him fragile, cold.

The decisions he’d made over the course of the year had been costly. He voluntarily cut himself off from everything and everyone that mattered, because the only thing Dick needed, the voice would whisper into his ear, insidious and low, the only thing Dick wanted was  _ him _ .

That voice had been right, partially at least. For too long a time, Dick only wanted his ex to the point that nothing else mattered except the clarity their play gave him. Nothing, not Dick’s sense of self, his relationships, his thoughts, his time. He chased the silence, the pain, and yes, the pleasure.

Sometimes, Dick sits back with his feet on the wobbly coffee table of his crappy apartment, cheap beer in his hand and think back on the shitty year he’s had. And then he realizes that it hasn’t even been a year. It was only seven months.

The breakdown is simple: one night of intense sexual exploration with a man dedicated to putting “rich brats in their place.” Three months spent in a relationship that was more physically gratifying and emotionally wrecking than Dick could ever imagine. He devoted everything he had to it never realizing he didn't receive enough back in return, and the lack was sending him spiraling down. When his friends commented on Dick leaving school, his change in behavior, his jumpiness and casual cruelty, Dick cut them off with surgical precision. When his family sat him down to voice their concerns, Dick had stormed out of the manor in a flurry of vile accusations, destroying the relationship between himself and his foster family. The only thing that mattered was what he wanted and how easy it was to get the clean silence in his head. One month of living together, a month where, in retrospect, Dick saw more of himself stripped away. Four days to watch it all fall apart. He’s not sure why the clues crystallized all at once. He’s not sure where the clarity came from. And Dick would like to think he would’ve seen it without the calls from his lawyer and bank—but he honestly can’t be sure. Regardless, Dick sat against the door of his rented penthouse suite as the information was revealed in sickening detail. A document granting permission to Dick’s account with his shaky signature at the bottom, so shaky the bank immediately assumed it was forged. To this day, Dick isn’t sure if it was. It was due to those circumstances and the suspicious activity already flagged on Dick’s account that brought the matter to Bruce Wayne himself, the primary account holder and friend to the bank, who agreed to freeze the funds.

His accounts had been frozen, his money disappearing in an instant, and his lover was not all he seemed. Yet the it didn’t end there. Three days spent alone on his knees in the penthouse. It was the worst punishment Dick had received, no contact, no phone calls, being abandoned. Worse even than the cruel words exchanged when his lover finally returned.

It didn’t matter. This wasn’t the end, because this was love, wasn’t it?

Dick’s lover calmly told him their affair was no such thing.

Dick had left then, stumbling out on aching legs with nothing but the close on his back and an empty heart. Then it was one month of self-flagellation and recrimination, one month of fear and doubt and unquiet in his heart as he tried to figure out what to do next. But he made it to the other side. Bruised and feeling a little broken, but he'd made it. He had no where to turn, no ties to hold him down, and no desire to scurry home to listen to let his family pronounce their judgement. And in that moment, Dick realized he wasn't just free of his lover. He was free from everything in his life at that moment. 

The understand was as freeing as it was terrifying. 

Now he’s six weeks into a new life, back in school with a job, living with a guy he met at a party. Most days don’t even hurt anymore.

This is about to be another milestone, another day when Dick Grayson drags the tattered remains of his mind, body, and soul together and do something to put his life back together. A marionette playing at his own strings. If he does it long enough, lives loud enough, tries hard enough, it will be real again.

He’ll feel real again.

 

* * *

 

Jason explains his composition idea to Dick twice as they take tea together in the small studio. White walls surround them, so stark Dick feels the colors bleed into the dozens of painted canvases propped against bins. The small, paint-flecked table at where they sit holds several of Jason’s concept sketches along with two ceramic mugs.

The first attempt is a rather stirring recount of Jason’s visit to the Gotham Met’s lost collections where he gravitated to the story telling found in the academic paintings of the nineteenth century. He likes the way they created iconic representations of the everyday and mentions the inspirations for him, like Cot’s “The Storm” and Regnault’s “Salome,” and Dick can only nod along because he’s always gravitated towards music and took that appreciation course rather than art history. But somehow Jason seems to know Dick doesn’t recognize the names and pulls out his phone wrapped in a tattered case. The passion in Jason’s voice is amazing and his hands explode into motion as he expounds on their history, their artistry, and the way the images haunted him.

“They are very beautiful,” Dick agrees, setting the phone on the table. “How does this work into your idea then?”

Jason gives him a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Let me start over before I bore you even more. My piece will center on six images drawing from the hero’s journey.”

“The mythic structure found in classical storytelling, right?” Dick asks, glad to finally weigh in on something familiar. Seeing Jason’s face light up is worth it.

“Exactly,” says Jason. “But I want to show the times in between. The moments immediately after defeat or the preparation for the journey. I’m thinking about calling it, ‘A Hero’s Progress.’ What do you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know, man,” Dick hedges. It’s been a long time since anyone’s asked his I need the opinion on something important. “I’m just the pretty face, right?”

Jason’s brow furrows. “Not at all. The emotions, the story told through your body, I’m translating that to the canvas. If you don’t buy into the idea, hell, if you don’t like it, I’ll get nothing out of the session. So tell me what you think.”

The earnestness is what sells Dick, more than the concept, more than the rough sketches Jason revealed to him.

“I think I’m ready to be your hero.” Dick grins at how well that goes over. Jason’s slick facade goes red around the edges and he stutters slightly before regaining his cool.

“Gr...great. Great. Well, you follow that hall and take a right. You can change there. I’ve got everything set up for you back there.” Jason jerks his thumb over one shoulder where a wooden stool is placed in front of a white sheet. There are a few other seats there, a wingback chair, and a backless loveseat with plush velvet cushions.

“I’ll be right back.” Dick doesn’t bother to hide the spring in his step, and he knows Jason is watching. He’s never going to forget how Jason’s eyes lit up just now and how it makes him feel. Easy. Normal.

The alcove is bare but for a wooden armoire and six wooden pallets tucked together on the floor. They look like they’ve been sanded smooth to form a base. Dick strips out of his clothing and tosses it down on the palettes, hoping the pile is neat enough for the room.

He didn’t bring a robe, and there doesn’t appear to be a towel, so Dick returns to the front room with his hand strategically placed over his cock. If Jason notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“Where do you want me?” Dick asks.

“On the stool first, please. Just sit there comfortably.”

Dick does as requested and doesn’t shiver at the quiet, “Good,” tossed his way.

Watching Jason in his own studio is so different than in the classroom. He actually picks up a pencil in Dick’s presence for one. He uses it for another.

Jason’s rough voice shatters the silence. “You can talk if you wanna. Or, I don’t know. We can turn on some music if you want.”

“You don’t need it to be quiet? I mean. To concentrate?”

Jason shrugs. “That’s for class. Keeps us focused on the fundamentals. I know your body now, and I can tell you don’t care for the silent treatment.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know, man. Tell me about yourself?

Dick stares at him, mind suddenly blank. It’s been a long time since he’s been asked to talk about himself. He’d started believing that he spoke too often about his day, what he thought, his opinions, his needs. The exasperated sighs, the cutting remarks. Sometimes he still heard them. It had been easy at one point. He used to be good at small talk, at getting a person to sit across from him and open up, but recently, Dick only goes through the motions, another performance he can’t bring himself to enjoy.

Jason must sense his hesitation, because he says calmly without looking up from his page, “I’ll start. That okay?”

It’s more than fine, Dick thinks, nodding, and Jason begins to speak.

“I’m a Gothamite born and raised. Never really left the city except for those farm field trips the schools take us inner city kids on so we can identify a cow or something, I don’t know.”

Dick chuckles, remembering his own trip upstate. “Did you go to Isley Orchards too?”

“Mortimer’s Dairy Farm,” Jason replies, and Dick laughs because he’s been there too. “They had really good cheese. Anyway, I got into art through tagging. I know, I know, it’s pretty fucking cliché but thems the brokes, right?” Jason adds, proving he's Gotham through and through with the way they twist the world to make it their very own, even their slang. “I went through one of those Wayne programs for art, narrowly avoided a juvie stint after I was caught building a community mural with some friends and fell into a scholarship. Another Wayne thing.” Jason’s hand sweeps over the paper removing the small erase marks. “I want to win so I can travel. Study abroad in Florence, see the world. I’m not trying to put any pressure on you. Just wanted you to know why this is important to me.”

“I don’t mind,” says Dick, because he doesn’t and it doesn’t change how he views Jason at all. In fact, he finds it endearing. “It took me two years and a backpacking trip to figure out what I wanted to do in school. And even now, I’m not sure where I’ll end up when I’m done.”

“What was your major?

“International business,” he says feeling silly even if he shouldn’t. “I thought it’d be a good thing. Follow in my foster dad’s footsteps. I really didn’t like it though.”

Jason doesn’t so much as twitch at that confession. He knows, Dick thinks, he knows and isn’t saying anything.

“So, I spent the next year taking classes I wanted to take. Bounced around in the sociology and criminal justice for a while, but I don’t know. There wasn’t enough math.” Dick shrugs.

“Drop your arm for me, Dick,” Jason murmurs and Dick quickly shifts back into his pose. He catches the quirk on Jason’s lips. “Thanks.”

“So yeah. Math. I like numbers more than the average person, so I tried to combine it with something else. I looked into the comp courses then went back to business. Forensic Accounting was looking pretty good there for a minute—"

Jason pushes back from his table. “Hold up.”

Dick freezes, thinking he’s fallen out of his pose again, but Jason’s only glaring at him suspiciously.

“Forensic? Accounting?”

“It’s a thing,” Dick says.

“Yeah. A thing for old guys named Chester and Phil.”

“My name is Richard.”

Jason frowns, clearly affronted by the idea. “Please tell me you’re not going to spend the rest of your life staring at spreadsheets.”

“I’m not. I am a math major, though. I’ll probably end up with a minor in comp-sci if not a double major.”

“Wow. So that isn’t what I pictured for you at all. I was thinking something like mass comm because you’ve got such a presence, but it’s cool though.” Jason picks up his pencil again. “Tell me what it’s like in the math department.”

Their conversation makes the time fly by. Dick regales Jason with some of the interesting characters and backgrounds in the mathematics department. He tells Jason about the terrible week that led him here and how he stumbled into the flyer to make money to fix his car. In turn, Jason tells him about the art department and some of his experiences witnessing the creativity of others. It’s illuminating and also, in the way Jason tells it, funny. Dick’s stomach muscles throb with how much he laughs while trying to stay in position. School turns into hobbies turns into jobs. Dick sheepishly admits to his tutoring and work as a delivery boy for Stone Flowers, but his lingering embarrassment turns to pride when Jason compliments and then commiserates with him.

“I get the whole working through school thing,” he says. “I put in time at the scrap yard and at Bizzy’s shop five days a week. My scholarship pays for school, but I’m on my own for everything else.”

“Yeah,” Dick says softly. “Me too.”

Jason goes quiet for a moment, brows knitting together in thought. His face clears and he says, “So hey. I work at an auto shop on South Brunard and 10th. That’s Bizzy’s place. If you can get your car down there, I’ll look it over for you. I can give you the friends and family special. You pay for the parts but I’ll cop the labor.”

Dick stares at him. “Jason. Oh man, I don’t. I couldn’t.”

“Yeah you could,” Jason says firmly. “And this way you could see my masterpiece. Between the scrap yard and Bizzy’s shop, I get to work with metal and it’s seriously badass. I’ve got this one piece for my sculpture class that’s looking real good. I like the classical stuff, but sometimes you just wanna take what’s old and forgotten and bring it back into someone’s consciousness. All that work is about remembrance and discovery.”

“I’d like to see it sometime,” says Dick, and Jason grins, dimple curving into his cheek.

“I’d like to show you.”

 

* * *

 

Dick arrives a few minutes early for the next session and stands outside for ten minutes before he receives a text.

**Come upstairs already.**

“I don’t care if you show up a little early,” Jason says once Dick slides through his door. “What I don’t want is for my model to get sick because he’s worried about being fashionably on time.”

“Alright,” Dick says, and comes straight up for his next two sessions. Jason greets him with a grin each time. No pretense, no hidden test then, Jason does not mind.

Soon, the two-hour window of time he spends with Jason becomes the high point of Dick’s week. Dick arrives to a warm place with a warm smile. He sharing good conversation and laughter with a handsome man who doesn’t mind challenging Dick or being challenged in return. It feels easy, normal, like he’s himself but better. And the part of Dick that enjoys being pushed and prodded and directed until he receives that small but heartfelt praise gets fed little by little.

Jason, who is never reticent about his ideas, welcomes Dick as a creative participant. He shows Dick some of preliminary sketches and asks Dick’s opinion. They’re beautiful, stunning even, graphite on paper, but Dick has never seen himself in this light. Still, he thinks it can be better and, after taking a stabilizing breath tells Jason.

“You think so, huh?” Jason says, a glint of challenge in his eye. “Well pony up, Mr. Muse and show me what you can do.”

It only takes a moment or two for Dick to decide his next pose. He circles the stool testing it for wobbliness, although he knows it’s sturdy. Finally, he places one hand on the wooden seat and lifts his body up. He becomes a sensual curve from the point of his toes that just brush the floor to the round slope of his shoulders. He meets Jason’s gaze, and that same green light he first noticed weeks ago blazes there.

“Damn it, Dick. This is excellent; this is epic,” Jason says, and for the first time, his strokes sound hurried like he’s desperate to capture Dick’s pose. “You’re so fucking good at this.”

Dick closes his eyes and breathes.

 

* * *

 

Dick slips onto the bed where Roy lies snoring and waits back pressed to the headboard. He checks the clock on the bedside table before poking Roy gently in the nose. His hand is slapped away and Roy wiggles against the pillow with a frown. His eyes blink open to glance around blearily before settling on Dick.

“Grayson, what the fuck,” he groans. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I know. I know,” Dick says apologetically. “I just needed to be near another person for a while.”

“You woke me up early just to talk didn't you?” Just then, the room is filled with tinkling bells interspersed by a yellow-billed cuckoo. Roy glares at Dick’s smirk. “Fine. You’ve got two minutes.”

“Thank you,” Dick says, feeling grateful and just a hint of guilt. His fingers pick at the embroidered lines in Roy’s quilt. “I think I like him. Jason. He makes me want to try. I think I want to try.”

“Do or do not,” Roy yawns, sagely. “What are you afraid of anyway? It sounds like he’s into you too.”

It takes a while for Dick to force the answer from his throat, and even then it’s faint to his ears. He doesn’t want to say it, but he can’t hide from the truth either. “I’m still a little fucked up,” he admits. “After the whole thing. With him. My ex. Sometimes it holds me back.”

“Yeah. I know, sweetheart,” Roy says. “Doesn’t mean you’re no good.”

Dick nods, knowing Roy is right, but it doesn’t help the way he sees himself on the inside. He doesn’t feel  _ good _ . That’s the problem.

 

* * *

 

“Bizzy’s Automotive Repair” spreads across the left window of the auto shop in carefully lettered red paint. Dick recognizes it from letter work sketches he’s seen at Jason’s studio, just like he recognizes the smooth flames running up the side of a hot rod on display is Jason’s as well.

There’s a bell at the top of the door and it rings when Dick cross the threshold. The hot rod dominates the front room of the small shop. There’s a tall cashier’s counter in the left hand corner besides a steel door leading to the shop area. A set of chairs and a table with neatly stacked car magazines sit against the window.

Dick approaches the counter where another shiny bell rests. He brings his palm down sharply and the bell’s tart peal carries through the air. The steel door rolls open, and Jason steps inside. The sleeves of his oil-flecked coveralls are tied around his waist revealing his broad shoulders and trim waist wrapped in a damp tank top. His grin when he spots Dick lights the room.

The knot in Dick’s belly slowly unravels.

Jason crosses his arms. “You finally made it down here.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dick says, letting his eyes slide down the tanned skin and prominent muscles on display before twisting away. He points out the window. “That’s me.”

“The Audi TT out there?” Jason winces. “Someone fucked it up.”

“My baby was parked on campus,” Dick reminds him. “So that someone definitely wasn’t me.”

“Your baby, huh?” Jason asks, amused. “Go ahead and give me the keys so I can check her out then.”

“Him,” Dick says, handing over his car keys. Jason quirks his brow at him but doesn’t comment.

“I’ll go assess the damage, and then I can give you an estimate.”

Jason returns some time later with a clipboard in his hands. He crouches beside Dick’s chair and points out the damaged areas.

“His frame is intact, so you lucked out there, but the body damage along the driver side door is pretty extensive. And it looks like the wiring running through there is shot.”

Dick fights to keep his attention on the simple car printed on the paper rather than the slight curl in Jason’s hair. “Sure,” he says. “I’m not sure how this matches up to the actual damage, but I trust you.”

Jason glances at him from the corner of his eye. “You can come into the shop and I’ll explain it to you there, if you want. We’re slow today, and I don’t mind.”

The garage proper is cleaner than Dick imagined. Two midsize sedans sit on hydraulic lifts in the center of the room. Dick’s Audi sits out in the far corner like a bright blue flare. Jason is patient with his explanations, revealing the damage calculations mechanics use and how it correlates to insurance pricing. Dick nods, eyes glazed and embarrassed because he hasn’t tried to collect insurance money to pay for the repairs, afraid it might get back to his foster father. Another fuck up from the fucked up son. Next, Jason opens the passenger door and quickly runs through the wiring running through it and how it relates to the driver’s side.

“It does make sense,” Dick says, answering Jason’s question. “And I did notice how my speedometer started flickering, but I just thought it might be a bulb or something. I don’t know anything about cars, so again. I’m trusting you here.”

Jason straightens up with a groan. “Okay, no. Everyone who gets behind a wheel should know the basics, man. It helps you keep up the overall maintenance of your vehicle, and if shit happens, you can at least have an inkling if you’re being taken advantage off.”

Dick stares at Jason who glares right back at him, and somehow, Dick knows he’s messed up. Then Jason shakes his head. “Come on. We’re going to fix this right now.” He strolls around to the front of the car. “Pop the hood.”

“Pop the hood,” Dick repeats. “Right.” He leans over the console searching for the right button and finds it quickly enough. He hopes.

Together, he and Jason lean over the engine bay while Jason explains what lies under the hood. He removes the protective covers to reveal a whole new world to Dick. Engine, carburetor, radiator, air intake, plenum chamber, air filters, oil filters, headlights, Jason has him pointing out the different parts, their function, and their interconnected workings. It’s fun in a way, answering and asking questions, the brush of Jason’s shoulder against his when he gets it right. The quiet praise Jason gives him so easily. It makes Dick tingle with warmth. Soon, everything drops away except for the press of warm metal against Dick’s thighs,  Jason’s voice, his long clever fingers and his bare arms and the way they slide over his skin. Dick bites his lips, telling himself to keep it together.

The moment’s broken by a sharp rap on the door. Dick swings his head to the source. A rather tall, densely muscled man leans in the doorway. His handsome face is a bit sallow and his hair curls neatly over his forehead. The name tag on his chest announces him as “Bizzy,” the shop’s infamous owner.

“Hey,” he says, nodding to Dick in greeting. “You the model?”

Dick glances at Jason before nodding. “Yes.”

“You look like a model,” says Bizzy. He turns to Jason. “We just had that shipment come in, man.”

“Oh.” Jason hops down from the stool. “Yeah, sorry, boss. I’ll get on it.”

“Thank you. We should be able to finish out the Dibicino thing this afternoon.” Bizzy nods at Dick again before tilting back into the hallway and out the garage.

“I’m sorry,” Jason begins, just as Dick says, “I guess I should be going. I took up a lot of your time today.”

“That’s never a problem with you, Dickie,” Jason says. He walks Dick back to the waiting area where they both linger looking for something to say.

Dick holds up his phone awkwardly. “I just messaged my ride. He should be here any minute.”

“Cool. I’m gonna head to the back then,” Jason jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Thanks for coming down today. I didn't get a chance to show you my baby. But you'll see it next time.”

Dick grins. “Thanks for taking care of my baby. I know he’ll be in good hands.”

“The best hands,” Jason says, raising them into Dick’s line of sight. They’re big hands, calloused and oil-stained with long fingers and deep curving lines in the palm. Beautiful, Dick thinks and doesn't imagine how they'll feel on his skin.

Just then, his phone jangles. He checks the message then looks out the window to see Roy’s bright red jeep rolling through the parking lot.

“My ride’s here,” Dick says, sadly.

“Yeah. I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Saturday.”

It never seemed so far away.

 

* * *

 

Saturday arrives in a wash of heavy rains and window-rattling winds.

Dick makes it to Jason’s studio earlier than usual. His backpack is heavier than normal, with an extra towel and some light hair pomade joining his robe. The place is warmer than outside but not by much. Steely light filters through the windows bleaching the usual gold tones from the wooden floors and darkening the colors on the canvases by the wall.

“It’s rough out there today,” Jason says, handing him a cup of tea. “Thanks for still coming down.”

The steam feels so good wafting over Dick’s face that he stands there breathing it in until even his lashes unfreeze. He takes a deep sip and smiles. “Thank you for the tea. And I don’t mind, really. I mean, we have a prize to win, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason says circling over to his palette. “Go and get ready. I brought out the space heater too if you need it.”

Dick undresses in the alcove that he’s increasingly becoming sure is Jason’s bedroom. The pallets are neatly stacked but the thick quilts are kicked haphazardly beside the wall and he can see pillows stuffed haphazardly inside the armoire. Jason had been in a rush this morning then. Somehow, the thought of a half-finished clean makes Dick smile. After setting his clothes away, Dick trots over to the bathroom and takes in his hair. The beanie protected most of his hair from the rain, but some bits are damp and beginning to curl. He slicks some pomade through the heavy strands, raking away until his face is framed by a painstakingly finessed tousle.

Dick takes to the love seat today and lies back in a languid pose. At least he hopes it’s languid. After their discussions during the last session, Dick had purchased several fashion catalogs and tried mimicking poses. It pays off because Jason grins at him from across the room

“That’s great,” he exclaims. “That’s exactly what I was thinking about. Damn, you’re good Grayson.”

Dick tosses his head back and winks, but inside he’s grasping the small compliment with grubby fingers and hoarding it to his chest like a precious stone.

Their conversation is sparse today. Jason’s handsome face is fixed in concentration, and Dick’s mood is hushed by the weather. They lapse into complete silence sometime at the half-hour mark, leaving Dick to stare at the white walls while Jason murmurs suggestions to him. “Tilt your head back a little more, please. Do you mind opening your hand? That’s excellent. Keep that same pose but curve your arm up above your head. You’re doing good man, so, so good.”

Jason’s voice is low, gently commanding instead of demanding, and hypnotic in a way that’s similar to the patter of rain on the windows, the soft hum of the space heater. Dick closes his eyes so he can feel the compliments more, the tiny praise that bandies about his head like a soft cloud, and when Jason doesn’t protest, he keeps it that way.

The slow drift of his thoughts takes Dick completely by surprise, but then again, he doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to realizing what’s going on around him.

Dick's first experience in that culture didn't end well because his partner was an overbearing, money grubbing, borderline if not completely emotionally abusive dude, but Dick really, really loved the physical sensations and the clean white noise he could surround himself in, so it comes as a surprise that he can achieve it in this way. From just the quiet scratches of paper on pen, the soothing sound of Jason’s exhalations, the warm touch of his gaze sliding over Dick’s body heating every bit of skin they touch. From Jason’s soft words. From the way he says Dick’s name like something other than a joke. He likes it so much. Dick barely hums acknowledgement when Jason calls his name a second time.

“Dick? Come on, man. You’re slipping out of the pose again. You alright over there?”

Dick tilts his head, considering the question that came from miles away. “I’m okay.”

“Can you put your hand back over your head please?”

“My hand?” Dick blinks some of the haze away. His right hand had been above his head but now rests on his knee. “When did that happen?” He curls his fingers over the soft skin of his inner thigh and that feels so good he strokes upwards shivering at how good that feels too.

“Do you need to take a break?” Jason asks, voice strained.

Dick shakes his head. “Nah. Just,”  _ touch me _ , “Put me how you want me. I can,”  _ be good _ , “do it.”

A clatter, squeaking sneakers, Jason’s soft curse. Dick tilts his head towards the sounds but even that feels far away.

“You falling asleep on me?”

Dick’s lashes flutter slowly revealing Jason’s chiseled face looming over his. Sleep isn’t responsible for his lethargy, the soft cocoon blanketing his thoughts and actions. He wants to explain it to Jason, but he can only smile dreamily.

A hand wraps around his wrist, a strong grip, warm and lifts Dick’s arm above his head a little higher than before, stretching his languid form out. Dick pushes against the grip out of instinct only to have it tightened. The firm pressure, the heat, and Jason’s eyes on him, his voice murmuring, “That’s good. Perfect,” and Dick can feel it pressing into his skin, weighing him down like an anchor. His breath catches in his throat.

“Jason,” he manages though his tongue feels thick and wet in his mouth. He begins to tremble.

“Dick? Shit. Dick, are you. Are you okay?”

The grip on his wrist tightens and Dick moans, thrusting his hardening cock up. His thighs open. His skin flushes pleasantly. He nods at first and then shakes his head because he’s not okay. Not okay at all. He tries to answer the question, but when his mouth opens, he moans, “Hold me.”

A sharp inhale. A shaky hand at his shoulder. Then Dick’s enfolded in a tight embrace. “I got you, Dick. I got you.”

At that moment, Dick believes him and sinks down into the sweet, dark expanse where everything is calm, quiet and he can just be.

After surfacing, Dick realizes he’s still being held. The arms are strong and warm around him, deep grounding roots in the dark. A soft robe is draped over his chest and legs placed there by someone probably. Someone soft, someone red, his mind replies, Jason. Jason’s the one hold him close and careful, like he’s something precious. His control of his body returns slower than his mind, because Dick curls deeper into Jason and clutches his shirt while his brain shouts out a list of ten reasons this is a bad idea. He ducks his head, mortified, but he can’t seem to let go.

Jason must realize something’s changed because he jostles Dick gently. “You back with me?”

Dick swallows and swallows again until he’s sure his voice will hold steady. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Dick stops. No one had asked him that before, not that simply, not with a note of genuine concern. Or maybe they had but Dick had been too deep in his own head to hear them. He closes his eyes and thinks about it and reopens them when the answer comes. “No,” he says softly. “Not right now.”

“You need anything else then? I could call someone or something.” Jason’s voice grows softer. “I don’t mind, Dick, really.”

“Just this. For a little longer. Please.” He sighs when Jason’s arms tighten around him, something solid, something real. He counts slowly in his head, and when the sound of his inner voice is clear as a bell, he tells Jason he’s better now.

Jason disentangles from him using careful movements. A final, rough squeeze, a gentle pat of his shoulder, and then the warmth of his body disappears. The care though, it stays with Dick even as he stands on weak knees. He clutches the robe with a wry grin.

“I’m going to go get dressed,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” He hears Jason’s murmured acknowledgement and turns back towards the alcove. Each item of apparel adds a little weight to his body, a solidness to his thoughts, and when he slips the coat over his shoulders and the beanie to his head, Dick feels, as Alfred would say, put to rights.

The narrow hall separating the studio and the exit is clear, and Jason’s back is to him as he putters around his drafting table, straightening sheets of paper already collected into neat stacks or separated into polios and folders. Dick can walk out right now if he wants, no explanations. Jason, it seems, is filled with kindness. Instead, Dick squares his shoulders

“Hey,” he calls softly. “I wanted to apologize again.”

Jason turns slowly, glancing at Dick and the door before answering. “I don’t think you owe me one, but I get it.”

“I want to though. I didn’t mean to embarrass you like that. Or myself.” Dick clenches his fists to stop their trembling but it leaks into his voice. “I just. I haven’t been  _ good  _ in so long. I’m sorry. I just. I just.” He wants Jason to tell him it’s okay and that he can come back, but the words stay clogged in his throat. Maybe he can’t do this after all.

Jason waits patiently until Dick starts edging towards the door. “Look, you wanna go grab something to eat?”

Dick stops moving. “Like right now?”

“Sure, now. Or tomorrow. Or next week. Whenever you feel comfortable. We can get to know each other better. Outside of this,” Jason says. His big hands sweep through the air, as if to encompass the apartment, the painting, all of it. Something in Dick eases at the familiarity of Jason talking about  _ them  _ with his hands. “And maybe, if you want to talk about what just happened? We can do that too.”

Dick shakes his head in disbelief. “I’m. Jason, I’m kind of a mess in progress. You can see that, right?”

“I’d still wanna go out,” Jason says, voice soft, a little hopeful, and maybe Dick can do with a little hope.  He swore he’d never be this open to another person again, this exposed, but still, he blooms under the warmth of Jason’s gaze.

Perhaps he’s ready to try again.

“Okay,” he smiles when Jason’s head snaps up. “The stuff I’m going through is complicated. I’m not ready for a lot, but dinner,” a quick breath, “Dinner I can definitely do.”


End file.
